


end of the beginning

by shortcircuitify



Series: Wandering Wanderers [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Post-Canon, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:11:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9371729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortcircuitify/pseuds/shortcircuitify
Summary: And is it such a long stretch, to think perhaps…? He smirks to himself, presses his palm against the space of his heart, and wonders, and thinks, and wills.





	

The Outsider is clever, using naivete to his own purpose when it is better to play dumb than bother with the mundane. There is little to interest himself with the affairs of humans, those that shred whales to gain his favor. Yet, he finds such a fascination with them.

He is borne of human flesh, shaped by sorcerers and stripped down by the power of the void, fueled from blood and moulded against dark rocks. And perhaps, in that sense, he finds curiosity in humans, in the way they are irrational, strange, almost like he, in his dark realm.

And was it not the will of humans, that pushed him to the void? Pulled his body through the veil that separated them so, raised him to godhood? He floats, idly, the years ticking like seconds against the tips of his fingers.

He thinks of sweet Emily, bitter Emily – does her time flow in such boredom as it does for him, does she think of this dark place in the spaces between her thoughts?

Despite himself he hopes so, watches her from the rafters when the court is dim, the whale oil in their lamps burning low. He frowns, watches the stiffness of her back, the furrow between her brows, the harsh pull of her teeth.

And so despite himself, he thinks, wonders, bites the skin of his nails and feels the dull pain. Is his will so different than the worshipers of his blood? The void is elastic against his touch, and he feels it shape to his will, as it does. The will to move whales across air and bring the void into the lives of mortals.

And what of the opposite?

And is it such a long stretch, to think perhaps…? He smirks to himself, presses his palm against the space of his heart, and wonders, and thinks, and wills.

 

She taps her finger against the hard ebony of her throne, Corvo already far away in Karnaca, ruling with a steady hand in the heart of his home. She hopes he feels the warm sun against his weathered face, fresh breezes that are already stale as they whistle through the windows of Dunwall Tower.

She sighs. Court is steady, slow and easy now that the years have passed, Delilah’s shadow fading with the ivory creeping across the highest points of Emily’s home. She is glad, truly, for the monotony brought to her day in and out, to know her people will not be stripped and bled, her guards turning on her with the flick of a wrist.

There is peace, here, in Dunwall, but that does not mean that she is happy, her soul resting uneasily within the thumping of her heart.

For she is the daughter of Corvo Attano, wild in his youth and swift in his vengeance, careful in his heart, and so, in her veins, there is a longing for more.

She dreams, often, her mind wandering during the day and escaping during the night. In her dreams, there are whales in her wake, following her to swift corners and dark waves – and on each one she rises against the tide, and there, far across the horizon, there is a figure – a dragon, a demon, the darkness of the void.

But she never reaches it, drowns before she can sail to her destination. And slowly, she is becoming fearful of the waves, its white foam filling her throat, dragging her down.

He is never there. And despite herself, her heart aches in the cool of the night, clammy, her hands wandering without purpose. Her dreams turning to nightmares, heavy bags under her eyes weighing across her shoulders.

It is a lonely life, the life of an Empress, stamped and sealed. Sent to rulers and dukes and nobility to be wed, each declined with a polite smile and a kiss upon her signet ring. But her time is running out, with her court grumbling, ruffling their feathers against her many refusals. It does not sit well, and she does not sit well with it.

And so she sits. And waits. And like the falling and rising of the sun, she only need wait for the shadows to creep across her throne room, touching the tips of her boots, for a billow of smoke to strut across her court, sans shadow.

The afternoon haze leaves her court half-empty, eyes drooping and mouths opened in perpetual yawns, and so he flows easily amidst the nobility of the Empire. Her eyes follow him, her heart beating so wickedly against her chest she is certain he can feel it.

He is different, the whites of his eyes pursuing her against the void dark of his pupils, but _oh,_ does she know that smirk, the lanky way he flows and lifts his chin to her, eyes smoothing over her body.

She must be dreaming, his cruel tricks returning to her mind, the faint mark hidden beneath thick leather pulsing against her wrist.

She takes a deep breath as he reaches her dais, bowing easily to her, and she stands, legs shaking. It has been years, but she remembers the curve of his jaw, feels the stolen warmth of him wrapped around her. Already, although she knows it foolish, she imagines him laying in her bed, his bare back, his arms around her as they sit together in the evening, a warm fire heating their cheeks.

It is so mundane but - she will need to buy more books, if they are to sit together so often, basking and –

She places a hand over her heart, steadying its erratic rhythm, chiding herself for acting like a weedy teenager in her excitement.

She can see the scruff of a beard growing on his jaw and cheeks, lines shaping around his eyes and mouth, and it makes her want to snort, but for now, she holds in her laughter, will let it loose in the quiet of her rooms. Perhaps he will be there too.

“Imperial Majesty,” it is his voice, with a gruffness that makes her smile, the cold echoing of the void faded from him.

He offers her his hand, palm raised to accept her own, to kiss the pulse of her wrist, and to him she places the covered mark, kept close all of these years, and _oh,_ it is him, and she cannot help the grin bursting against her features.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll admit, this is very self-indulgent, so I decided to make it a little bit of a oneshot after "Bow". Anyway, this might be where I leave Emily and the Outsider for now, in this series, but I do have plans for some other one-shots in this collection, with other characters and the such. I might also do something more with them, however, because the Outsider adjusting to living like a human again could be funny.
> 
> But let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!


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